A Mark Each Time I See You
by sumthin.clever.5
Summary: John thinks he sees Sherlock a lot. But he can't be. Sherlock is dead. Isn't he? (Picfic. No copyright infringement meant. Not quite Doctor Who crossover.)


A/N: Johnlock/Doctor Who not quite crossover fic.

Picfic- Sherlock washing Silence tally marks off of John's arm

pic: tinypic [dotcom] / r / 21osl0i / 5

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A Mark Each Time I See You

It started about a year after Sherlock's death. Well, to be honest, it started immediately after his death. John would imagine that he saw Sherlock at every turn. A flash of black, curly hair. That long, lithe body disappear around a corner. Imagine he heard that intoxicating voice tickling his ear just out of eyesight. Sometimes he was sure it had whispered his name.

Both John and his therapist had decided that these episodes were John's dreams come manifest. It was wish fulfillment. Of course Sherlock was not really there. He was dead. John had seen him fall. John had seen the blood, felt the absence of pulse for himself. He'd been at the funeral.

But these episodes after a year were…different. They lingered longer, for one. Gradually, at first. They'd be there one moment and gone the next. John would hear that voice and then it would vanish as if it never were. But they slowly loitered for lengthier stretches of time. Stayed after several blinks of John's eyes. The voice that lured him, steadily urged him on.

These were the episodes he didn't tell his therapist about for fear of being committed. These were the visions that were driving John round the bend.

Once John had moved toward one such vision. Had approached it. Intended to touch it. He needed to know if he were mad or not, if this was a ghost or not. Would his hands pass straight through or connect with solid flesh?

But he never got close enough. Too many blinks, too within range. The vision evaporated into thin air like it was a mirage. He'd shaken himself out of his daydream, named himself the biggest prat living, and promised to stop looking for these things that would send him straight to the psych ward.

But they didn't stop coming, whether he was looking for them or not.

John had holed himself in the flat one night. He'd never seen the visions there, oddly. Only when he was out in the open and a fair distance away from the specter. He was flipping through channels on the telly. Trying to find something to distract him.

He happened upon Doctor Who, the episode Day of the Moon. Amy was marking herself every time she saw the Silence, lest she forget when she looked away.

John never forgot his encounters with his disappearing Sherlock. But he would swear he was going just as mad as the characters of this show when he couldn't find what he was seeking. Tangible proof that what he saw was real.

John thought he might employ the same tactic- a mark for each time he saw Sherlock. It was already a year and a half past Sherlock's death. If his delusions hadn't stopped by now, he doubted they ever would.

And they didn't. They got more scattered, came less often, but they still came. Two weeks since that last one, a month before that. The marks John made were either faded or gone, permanent, though the marker claimed to be.

And then it changed. A month shy of the third anniversary of Sherlock's death saw a resurgence in frequency of his appearances. John swore he saw him every time he blinked. Every breath brought another emergence of specter Sherlock.

And John was littered with tally marks. Hands, arms, chest, neck, face. They were everywhere. He often got strange looks when he was out. People eyeing him curiously for having marked himself so. Other times kids smiled at him, obviously having concluded he was seeing the Silence. But he was seeing much worse. Or much better, depending on how you looked at it.

John returned to Baker Street from the grocer's on the day that marked three years. A bit later he would visit Sherlock's grave with flowers like he did every year. Would sit and talk to his headstone and perhaps his ghost were he close by. Maybe ask him again why he showed himself to John so much, but never let John get close. Was he trying to leave John a message?

John bade Mrs. Hudson a greeting and proceeded to make his way upstairs to their flat. He'd never gotten out of the habit of calling it theirs. Three years now, and Sherlock's presence remained. How could it not, when John saw him so often? When he still lived in John's head? In his heart?

John opened the door and turned to take the bags into the kitchen when he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye…the specter. His Sherlock. John turned back toward the sitting room with a slowness he didn't know he possessed.

And he blinked. Because the specter had never shown up here. And he blinked again. He was still there. John shifted the bags in his arms. Withdrew the marker from his jacket pocket, its home for a year and a half now. He removed the cap with his teeth, never letting his eyes leave the Sherlock before him, and crossed the fifth tally on his face.

He'd gotten plenty of practice with this in the last month. That tally marked roughly the twentieth on his face. That was ignoring the ones scattered across his still occupied arms, hands, chest, neck.

The Sherlock-before-him's eyes zeroed in on John and his pen the way they sometimes did. This was not the first time John noticed this Sherlock watching his strange action, cataloguing it, deducing the reason he did it. John highly doubted Sherlock watched Doctor Who before his death. Science fiction telly didn't seem his cup of tea. And even had he, the episodes with the Silence were likely after his time.

And John recapped his marker, replaced it in his pocket, and stared at Sherlock. He'd usually disappeared by this point.

John hadn't tried approaching his specter since the time it had behaved like a mirage. Didn't want the disappointment of that episode again. But this one wasn't fading. How long would it remain?

"John," specter Sherlock said.

It was a low voice. Almost a whisper. But it still rasped across John's ears.

His Sherlock hadn't spoken to him in awhile. Or if he had, he'd never been close enough for John to hear.

The shock of it was enough to shake John, to throw him off balance inside and out. Disturb his equilibrium, his foundation. His arms went lax around his groceries. The bags tumbled to the floor, the milk carton breaking open and spilling, the eggs cracking on impact, the oranges he'd procured rolling across the floor.

John paid none of it any heed.

He cautioned a step. Just one. Sherlock remained. Another. His specter was still there. A few more. Sherlock moved, but not to disappear. It's like he tensed up in anticipation of John touching him. This was also new.

John moved until he stood before Sherlock. He hadn't yet vanished. Something told John that this time he wouldn't.

John raised a hesitant hand. Stopped just before he touched Sherlock's chest. He chanced a glance at it, trusting Sherlock not to disappear when John was no longer looking him in the eye. The chest in question rose and fell a bit faster while John watched. He placed a hand on it to feel a heart that was beating faster than John had ever felt it. Sherlock's body was responding like he had just run a race. Or he was nervous.

John's eyes rose again to capture Sherlock's. There were words there. Feelings. Untold depths and lies and excuses and apologies and begging for forgiveness.

John's other hand rose to touch Sherlock's face. Not hesitant this time. Sure that Sherlock would still be there, be solidly there, when he did.

And Sherlock's breath flushed out of his mouth and his eyes closed, blocking John from seeing those hidden depths, as Sherlock leaned his head into John's hand.

John's mouth opened, intending to voice his multitude of questions and express his confusion and anger and depression and _happiness_, but nothing came out. The cacophony of tumultuous thoughts and feelings in his head and heart would not untangle. Too bound up in each other for any to come out as a single idea.

And then Sherlock's eyes opened. And his eyes, too, were a swirl of emotion, but the most resounding of which was remorse. And John's mouth snapped shut. Because what could he say in the face of that?

And then Sherlock's hand came up to lay itself on top of John's. Layering their hands on Sherlock's face. And when John went to remove his, when the thought occurred to him that this man _lied_ to him for 3 years, that he put him through _hell_, that he had every right to lash out at him, Sherlock's hand tightened.

And his eyes scanned John's face, taking in weight loss and the uneasy sleep and the marks. And his other hand rose to trace John's face. The cheeks roughened from the tears they'd weathered. The bags under his eyes. The laugh lines that had faded because John honestly didn't do a great deal of laughing anymore.

And the marks.

The lines drawn and crossed across his face.

And he removed John's hand from his face to inspect that, too. The lines drawn and crossed. Removed his own hand from John's face to lift John's other hand. Inspect it. The lines drawn and crossed.

Held John's hands in his own for awhile. Just looked at what he had done to himself. All in pursuit of seeing Sherlock. Reminding himself that he had been seen, that he was there, illusion or not.

Sherlock brushed his thumb across some of the marks on John's hand. Then he brought a hand to his face and just pressed it against his lips. He didn't kiss it. Not exactly. Didn't pucker his lips. He just brought John's hand to his lips and held them there, pressed to his skin.

John just blinked at him. If his thoughts were confused before, now he was completely dumbfounded. Confounded. Gob smacked. What the hell was Sherlock doing?

When Sherlock led him to the bathroom, John let him. What could he possibly argue at this point?

When Sherlock removed his jumper, John stood flaccid. What the hell. Why not?

When Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, drew it down John's arms and off his back, John was still. Unmoving and unspoken.

And Sherlock traced the tally marks across John's body. His face. His hands. His arms. His neck. His chest.

Sherlock pulled a cloth from where they'd always stored them on the shelf. Moistened it at the sink that still held both of their tooth brushes. Soaped it with the soap that John had taken to buying. The soap that smelled like Sherlock. And Sherlock retrieved John's hand and started washing it.

No words. No explanations for his absence. No reason for his possibly permanent return.

He just held John's hand and washed it.

And John let him.

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A/N: You really don't need to have watched Doctor Who to understand the tally mark thing, but in case I didn't explain enough in fic, here's another go- The Silence are a religious order of aliens. They live on Earth among us, but we don't know it. That's because whenever we are not looking at them, we forget they even exist. To stop themselves forgetting, the Doctor and his companions would make tally marks on their skin whenever they had seen a Silent lest they forget when they turned away again. John is employing something along those lines. Hope this helped. [: And thanks to all that read/review/follow/favorite! x3


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